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by sapphire_child



Series: Season 13 Bits [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Episode: s13e02 The Rising Son, Gen, Grieving Dean, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Episode: s13e02 The Rising Son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 04:05:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12473080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire_child/pseuds/sapphire_child
Summary: “Dean! What the hell?” He’s all up in Dean’s face in two seconds flat, freaking out about the bloody knife but Dean just puts his hands up and steps away.“Sam.” He says, in as calm a voice as he can muster. “The kids not even a week old and he’s stabbing himself in the damn chest. You need to go and deal with him. Ican’t.”





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Dean’s seen a lot of gore in his time. A lot of messed up, disgusting crap – both human and monster. Hell, he’s seen Sammy slit his own damn wrists and almost bleed himself out. The grossness, the weirdness – it just kind of comes with the job description.

But there’s something about watching this kid (and he can’t help but think of him as a kid, even against all his better judgement) plunging a carving knife between his ribs over and over again…

He almost vomits on the spot. But once he’s managed to push down a crushing wave of nausea, once he’s confiscated the knife and delivered his parting words he marches back to the kitchen and all but pitches the knife into the sink.

The clatter makes Sam jump more than Dean’s entrance and he’s immediately on the offensive.

“Dean! What the hell?” He’s all up in Dean’s face in two seconds flat, freaking out about the bloody knife but Dean just puts his hands up and steps away.

“Sam.” He says, in as calm a voice as he can muster. “The kids not even a week old and he’s stabbing himself in the damn chest. You need to go and deal with him. I _can’t_.”

He doesn’t quite sprint to his room, but it’s a near thing. Avoiding Jack’s room requires some creative doubling back, but this is home. Dean knows these corridors almost as well as he knows the feel of the Impala’s steering wheel under his palms. He locks himself in, pulls his desk in front of it for good measure and then throws the loudest LP he owns onto the player. He’s sitting on the floor next to his bed sipping agitatedly at his beer when Sam starts banging on the door.

Dean thought that maybe when he got home to the bunker he might finally be able to spend some time alone. To, you know, grieve or whatever. What he hadn’t expected was for the Devil’s kid to start trying to shank himself to death with a damn knife.

Sam yells for a bit and even goes as far as rattling the handle and putting his shoulder into the door a couple times. Once he’s given up on that he quickly retreats. His priority right now is obviously the kid. That’s good. Fine even. Dean can take care of himself.

He drains the beer easily and then sets the bottle aside. His hands curl loosely around his knees and he sits, shoulders hunched and head down, the bedframe digging into his spine.

He doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t. But he wishes that he could.


End file.
